Poor pesky armadillo,
Pitted and pined against my wit.
Rock blocks she passes - plain vanilla!
And scented spray is a lame repellant.
Ants and grubs, her main feast,
Poor pests she rids in holes and mounds.
At my wits’ end I’m forced to say it:
“Prays Saint Francis - I grant you your bounds.”
- Gary Edward Geraci
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